Something about flipping through those pages, not recognizing the album because not everyone printed things like words on discs back then, and JB never, ever put them back in the right sleeve. Or recognizing the album and remembering how it used to slide into your car’s after-market player. How loudly you would play Sitting on the Dock of the Bay in high school, with the bass cranked to an obnoxious level, because Otis just GOT me, ya know? That brand of ennui cannot be expressed with ear buds, my friends.

Wondering about the contents of the dozenish unlabeled discs. Veritable treasures of musical memory, just waiting to be rediscovered. Or piles of crap. Now, if you’ll excuse me– I’m off to set adrift to some good vibrations. Because time is eternal.

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Once upon a time I was an English major-- creative writing to be exact. Perhaps that's why I get so personally offended by plagiarism.
Knowingly stealing the words/ideas/images from someone else-- without giving appropriate credit-- makes you a douchebag. All words, thoughts, photos, and ideas are protected by
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